We're Not in Jerusalem Anymore, Toto
by Melfice
Summary: Desmond is acting strange - crazy, even - and Shaun is determined to knock some sense in to him. Then Desmond is suddenly seducing him in Arabic and, oh yeah - what was that Lucy said about a Bleeding Effect? SLASH. PWP. DesShaun, AltMal.
1. We're Not in Jerusalem Anymore, Toto

**Warning:** PWP, SLASH

**Pairing:** DesmondxShaun, implied AltairxMalik

**We're Not In Jerusalem Anymore, Toto**

_by Melfice_**  
**

Shaun Hastings can't say he's never thought of Desmond Miles naked - he's certainly taken a second or two to admire the man's physique from behind. It would also be a lie to say that he hadn't wondered once or twice what it might be like to bend him over the Animus and shut up his god damned _mouth_, but it is also something that he's kept to himself.

Desmond Miles is, without a doubt, one of the straightest men he's had the misfortune of working with and it isn't that Shaun only fancies men, but he is most certainly willing to appreciate a particularly attractive male figure when he flaunts himself around all day long.

From the way that Desmond stares at Lucy's tight shirts it is very obvious the man is, at the least, primarily interested in women. Of course that doesn't stop Shaun from fantasizing and it's difficult to _not _fantasize when Desmond is the only man around him 24/7 with an ass worth looking at.

Things had been strange lately though.

It had started when he'd found Desmond absent from his room in the middle of the night, only to find the man stalking around on the rooftop as though this wasn't projecting a huge sign to Abstergo saying 'Assassins Here!'. Shaun had hauled him back down into the safehouse and spewed out a string of insults for the man's disregard for _common fucking sense_, but Desmond had followed him without a word.

In fact, Desmond hadn't spoken a word to him until they'd reached his room. Then he'd slammed his hand on the wall next to Shaun's head, trapping the man between him and the cement, and _purred_ something undecipherable in Arabic in his ear. Without missing a beat, Desmond had grinned roguishly at him and slinked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him without a sound.

Shaun's first breath had been a ragged, "What the _fuck_."

The next day Desmond had apologized for being on the rooftops - had mumbled something about possible sleepwalking - but hadn't mentioned anything about the strangeness in the hallway. Even when Shaun glared at him, as though waiting for some sort of explanation, Desmond had stared back at him obliviously.

He feels like he's entered some sort of parallel dimension when he wakes up the next morning and Desmond is asleep next to him in bed.

A string of obscenities had been followed by Desmond waking up and promptly _freaking the fuck out_ - and Shaun had never much researched sleepwalking, but he strongly considered putting a padlock on the outside of the assassin's room.

Shaun is only human and he curses his self control as he kicks Desmond out of his room, half wondering if the man truly _is_ sleep walking and half wondering if it is all some sick joke.

It doesn't make any more sense when he finds Desmond in the warehouse the next night, scaling the rafters at two in the morning like some sort of bloody _vampire monkey_ and without an explanation to be had.

Everything starts making a little more sense when Desmond attacks him, and things are oddly quiet when Shaun promptly decks him in the face.

The crack of his glasses underfoot is the least of Shaun's concerns and, truth be told, he doesn't even realize they aren't still on his face. The younger man's lip is bloodied, but he clutches onto the front of Shaun's shirt as though he might drown if he lets go, his dark eyes glazed and his lips murmuring nonsense.

Shaun's knuckles throb incessantly, but he holds Desmond against the wall of the warehouse regardless.

"Have you lost your damned mind, Miles?" Shaun asks him, but it almost seems like a rhetorical question at this point.

Desmond doesn't attack him again - not that his first, blind attempt had been successful - but he doesn't seem to immediately recognize his surroundings either. He continues to mutter, his words unintelligible.

"_Miles," _Shaun tries again, as Desmond continues to dances around the edges of his patience.

Then Desmond moves - foot snaps out, catches Shaun's ankle and pulls, hands at the older man's elbows, suddenly the full weight of his body behind his throw - and the two men crash onto the concrete floor of the warehouse.

He doesn't have time to breathe before Desmond is on top of him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"_Aasef, brother_," lips purr against his ear, and Shaun finds his body tensing. "I'll be more gentle."

Sleepwalking his _ass_.

Skilled fingers are already working at the buttons of Shaun's shirt, pulling it from his neck to reveal more skin, and Shaun almost chokes when Desmond bites gently at the base of his neck.

"Get hold of yourself, Miles," Shaun says through gritted teeth, "You're hallucinating!"

Desmond's knee slides between Shaun's leg and he presses himself against Shaun's groin, grinning into the man's neck when his body arches against him. "_Suker khaljic, Malik._"

Shaun's mind again warns him about taking advantage of the obviously _insane _Desmond Miles, but the voice in the back of his head wonders how it is _Desmond_ that is being taken advantage of.

The white sweatshirt gets tossed to the side and it isn't as though it's new - he's certainly seen Desmond in much less - but the man kneeling over him in unbuttoned jeans, knee digging into his thigh, fingers working at the last buttons on his shirt.....

"I thought you'd talk more during sex, Shaun," is the cocky voice in his ear, and for a moment Shaun almost slugs the man in anger.

Instead he digs his nails into Desmond's bare shoulders, hard enough to draw blood. "Quit fucking with me, Miles."

His conscience isn't sure how to react when Desmond pulls back from his neck and kisses him hard on the mouth, hands holding the side of his face. The other man's lip is bleeding again and their teeth clash, noses brush, but Shaun's breath still catches in his throat.

Desmond pulls back and his hands are already working at Shaun's pants.

Shaun's brain tries to keep up.

Desmond's skin, Desmond's muscle. There is a long scar along his abdomen that vanishes underneath the jeans clinging to his hip bones.

His mind stops working when Desmond wraps a hand around him, hips snapping in response, and those fingers work slowly up and down.

"Tell me when to stop," Desmond says, and he sucks at Shaun's lower lip and rubs circles with his thumb over the tip, and suddenly it doesn't even fucking _matter_ if it's Desmond or Altair or whoever-the-fuck he's channeling that is holding him.

Fingernails dig into the younger man's shoulder again and there isn't nearly enough room for him to move, with Desmond still over him and body still pressed tightly against him. His eyes are glued to Desmond's hands, unable to look away.

"_La taqlaq_," he murmurs again, a whisper against his lips.

Shaun inhales sharply and slips a hand between them, ghosting fingertips over Desmond's length. The hiss that the younger man lets out is intoxicating.

He doesn't have to press hard to shove Desmond onto his back, though the look in his eyes flickers wildly between confusion and desire. He pulls the tight jeans from Desmond's hips, throws them to the side and situates himself between the man's legs.

Shaun ducks and takes Desmond into his mouth, appreciating the gasp that escapes from his parted lips. It's surreal to think it's Desmond on his tongue, against his cheeks, moving down his throat. Shaun closes his eyes and inhales through his nose, his own hips rocking involuntarily when Desmond starts to groan, hands grabbing his hair.

Shaun isn't down long before Desmond tugs at his hair, speaking to him in broken Arabic and English, his face flushed; his eyes are wild and glazed.

"_Fuck_, Shaun-" Desmond's voice is raw and he wraps an arm around Shaun's waist, one hand digging into his upper arm. He flips the man roughly over before Shaun can say anything. There is the sound of spit and movement and Shaun barely has time to register his pants are still around his knees when Desmond is suddenly pushing into him.

Shaun finds enough self control to _not _scream obscenities, mostly paranoid on waking the girls and having them walk in to find them in an unexplainable awkward situation, but his fingernails dig into his palms hard enough that he's sure they're bleeding. Desmond's hands are gripping his hips tightly, pushing him forward and easing him back, his movements slow as Shaun tries to steady his breathing.

His fantasies had been much different, typically involving Desmond flushed and moaning beneath him, but they're a little too far gone to start discussing such details.

Shaun gasps as Desmond buries himself completely, hands moving up and digging into his waist, and Shaun tastes blood as he bites his lip; he pushes back until they're resting entirely against each other and relishes the sharp intake of breath from Desmond.

"Fucking _move_, Desmond," Shaun manages, and he hisses when Desmond finally does.

Desmond's hand wraps around him again, moving in time to his thrusts.

Shaun doesn't know how long it takes - _seconds_ maybe - just that Desmond's grip tightens suddenly and Shaun's name is falling from those lips and then it's all heat and swearing and his vision blurring.

He feels like a teenager, laying on the concrete floor, his thighs wet, and promises himself that he'll deck Desmond again if the man mentions anything about stamina.

"Fuck," Desmond murmurs next to him on the cold floor, but his voice is steady - and, most importantly, in English. His left hand still clutches Shaun's waist.

Shaun rubs the bridge of his nose. "My thoughts precisely."


	2. It Could Always Be Worse

**Notes:** I honestly didn't expect to write more for this story, thus why I made it a one shot and marked it as 'complete', but I never deny an idea.

**It Could Always Be Worse**

**or 'We're Not in Venice Anymore, Toto'**

_by Melfice_

The tea is delicious - and it should be after how hard they had to work to get to the small cafe, skirting through back alleys like streakers, hiding behind hats and sunglasses and innocent smiles. Shaun doesn't remember the last time he was able to go somewhere without looking over his shoulder, as though he had just escaped from a mental hospital and everyone had the guards on speed dial.

Lucy hides extremely well in her white peacoat and pink knit beret, the epitome of femininity as she daintily sips at her tea with perfect posture; Shaun knows better, but he also knows she has a mean right hook and thus keeps his mouth shut.

She is very calm considering the circumstances of their meeting and, even as she sips her tea, she seems to be contemplating a larger picture than on the words that Shaun throws at her.

Finally she sits the teacup onto its saucer and looks him in the eye. "_Why? _You can't even be in the same room without jumping at each other's throats and you're telling me you _fucked him_?"

Shaun feels as though he's swallowed a particularly rotten frog and he isn't blushing - because they're _adults, god damn it_ and they can certainly discuss this like adults - but he mumbles his reply into the teacup all the same, "_I_ didn't fuck him."

The simultaneous blush and grimace on Lucy's face almost makes the admittance worth it. "I don't need to know who was on top - I just want to know what in the world possessed you to go through with it."

"Like I said," Shaun hisses, already annoyed, but he glances around paranoid regardless. "The Bleeding Effect is getting much worse and Miles is losing his bloody _mind_."

Lucy coughs. "Even if he thought he was Altair - and even if Altair thought you were Malik, and subsequently _that_ is the reason Desmond had sex with you - that doesn't explain why _you_ went through with it."

"You're right, I absolutely apologize," Shaun replies, voice flat. "I had completely forgotten that I was a mechanical cyborg entirely devoid of all emotion and human need; I'll try to think rationally the next time an attractive man takes off my pants and-"

"_I get it_," she grates, hands shaking ever so slightly as she picks the teacup back up. "What do you want me to do about it?" 

"Fix it!" he snaps, as though the answer has been hanging there in front of her the whole time.

Her eyes narrow as though she is looking at a particularly stubborn child. "It's not like I can just flick a switch, Shaun."

Of course it couldn't be that easy; nothing could possibly be easy with Desmond Miles. He should wake up, get in the Animus, remember his little heart out, then go to sleep and _leave the rest of the __world alone_ - but things very rarely went according to the brilliant plans in Shaun's head.

Things had been extremely awkward since he and Desmond had played 'Guess Who?' in the warehouse nights previous. It had been fairly obvious that Desmond had been in his right state of mind for at least _some_ of the time - Shaun definitely remembers those insufferable lips moaning his name - but from the way Desmond skirts around him in the safe house now one would think he'd had no part in it at all.

Awkwardness was one thing, Desmond nearly running into walls to avoid him was another, but Shaun can't help but feel as though the stupid bartender is blaming _him_ for this.

"If nothing strange has happened since then...." Lucy begins, looking thoughtful, "it's a possibility that you... err... got it out of his system, so to speak."

Shaun stares at her blankly, unamused.

"Look, there's not a lot _I _can do, but if he's responding to you and listening to you and not killing us while we sleep," she pauses to breathe, before continuing, "then it seems like you're more capable of 'fixing this' than I am."

Some part of Shaun wonders why he expected Lucy to be of any help, and he glares at her silently as she smugly downs the rest of her tea and promptly asks for the cheque.

He does recognize that she likely has a point and that if the Bleeding Effect has gotten better then what are a few bruised prides (among other things)?

Shaun buries himself in his work, in his computer, in anything and everything that is _not_ Desmond Miles.

The list is short.

Everything he works on has something to do with that infernal oaf of a man and aside from popping up Solitaire for a mind numbing session there isn't a lot to be done that doesn't, at least in some way, relate back to him.

It all gets worse when he goes to his room and finds a bouquet of flowers on his beside table.

An eyebrow twitches, but he could be over reacting. They could be some sort of joke from Rebecca, or they could possibly be from an adoring fan, or even a secret admirer - and he can't even fool _himself_.

He snatches the flowers off of the table and shoves them under the bed, almost as though they are a bouquet of hissing pythons instead of multicolored daisies.

There's no note, no card, and he uses the anonymity to ensure himself that it is a fluke, a mistake, and that there's nothing strange going on at all.

It only gets worse as time progresses.

Two more bouquets show up over the next week and at some point he wonders if it's going to look as though he's starting a greenhouse underneath his bed.

He is scarcely finished stuffing a handful of petunias underneath his mattress when he notices_ poetry_ laying nonchalantly on top of his pillow, as though it had just grown there out of the sheets.

Petunias drop, glasses fall down his nose, and it is the fastest he's ever torn something apart. Bits of paper are still too incriminating and he throws them underneath the bed with the rest of his sickening collection.

He finds Desmond in the kitchen, buttering a piece of toast as though it is _art_, and he doesn't even announce his presence until he's grabbed the man by the collar and shoved him against the counter. The knife in Desmond's hand drops harmlessly to the floor and he looks for all the world like a mouse caught by a cat, all wide eyed and _seemingly_ innocent.

Shaun doesn't know if he's angry, embarrassed, or just frustrated but it doesn't help that Desmond stares at him as though _he's_ the guilty party.

"Do I have a huge fucking _sign_ on my head that says 'bloody fucking _gullible_'?" he seethes, shaking the bewildering man slightly. "Do I _look_ like I am enjoying these games, Mr. Miles?"

Desmond tentatively tries to peel his fingers off of his shirt. "About the warehouse... I can explain-"

"Forget the warehouse! I've forgotten all about that _incident_-" he hadn't, not in the slightest, "-I'm speaking of your most recent adventures in the land of the _bloody insane_."

The look of confusion on Desmond's face doesn't help Shaun's anger any.

"The flowers, you git!" he cries, shoving the man as he releases his grip on the white sweatshirt. "The _poetry_, the _love letters_. Did you think I wouldn't know it was you? We live in a house of _four fucking people_ - who the hell else could it have been?!"

"Maybe it was-"

He grabs Desmond's elbow as the man starts to slide away. "In _Italian_, Miles? Let me count the number of people in this house that speak Italian-"

"What do you want me to do?!" Desmond finally asks, throwing his hands up and shaking off the grip on his sleeve. "_Maybe_ I left it, but it sure as hell wasn't _intentional_."

"Oh, of course. I accidentally leave love notes to random people all the bloody fucking time!"

"It's not always me, all right? Or," Desmond pauses, as though trying to find the right way to phrase it, before stumbling ahead into his explanation, "Look, sometimes I hallucinate. Sometimes it's really fucking _bad_ and if Ezio is leaving you poetry and flowers then I honestly don't give a rat's ass; I would rather him think you're Leonardo than think you're a _Templar_."

Shaun's nose wrinkles in disgust. "Leonardo? Did _all_ of your ancestors fuck other men? It runs in the family then, so to speak?"

"Oh yeah, like I have any control over that."

The truth is there though and it's probably one of the last things Shaun wanted to hear. He had been so close to believing that Desmond's foray into the Bleeding Effect had been over - that he'd gotten it out of his system and all was well.

It all boils down to the warehouse again, whether he wants to think of it or not.

"If you're disgusted with it, then just slug me in the face or something next time," Desmond says then, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Shaun frowns, annoyed. He doesn't mention that he had indeed punched Desmond in the face in the warehouse, that it had been a pretty solid punch and that he's fairly certain it had only turned Altair on; he doesn't want to know what kinks the Arabian assassin and his one armed friend had been into.

His frown turns into a scowl moments later. "Not all of us are disgusted by having sex with men, Miles."

"Obviously," Desmond snaps, "or else I wouldn't have."

"Neither would _I._"

And it takes longer than it should for Shaun to realize they're actually agreeing.

It takes Desmond even longer, but then he's all embarrassment and awkwardness again, running a hand through his hair and a line of pink dotting his nose. He seems so far gone from the same Desmond that had jumped him - quite literally - nights previous.

They never reach any closure.

Lucy comes back and Desmond is all frantic scrambling to get out of the same room as Shaun, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee.

He isn't quite sure if their conversation was a success or a failure, but he isn't quite so surprised when he wakes up that night and Desmond is on his hands and knees over him.

"I don't speak Arabic," Shaun says flatly, and then adds, "or Italian."

He is surprised by the clarity in Desmond's eyes, and completely distracted by the way Desmond licks his lips before speaking.

"I don't either really," he replies. "I took French in school - lot of good that did me."

There is a short pause, but it feels like forever to Shaun.

He watches Desmond carefully, before finally asking, "What are you doing in here?"

"I have no idea," is the reply, and it's complete bullshit - or at least it should be, but something in Desmond's eyes makes Shaun buy it. "I just ended up here; it's certainly not the first time."

It's awkward again - Shaun isn't really sure there's much else it _could_ be.

"Well..." and he fumbles around in his mind for something, but for once he's at a complete loss for ideas and Desmond's presence is as much a distraction as ever. "Bugger off then."

"I'd rather fuck you," Desmond replies, voice nonchalant.

Shaun doesn't admit to anything - doesn't have to play this game - and he raises an eyebrow, "I'd rather you left."

He doesn't. He's still thinking of the night in the warehouse - as he has for every moment since it's happened - and he keeps finding himself wanting more. It's done awful things to his mind, done awful things to his perceptions of Desmond, and worst of all he's found himself watching the man more closely; he's been watching him work, watching him talk to the others, watching him like some sort of lovesick teenager.

It's disgusting and he wants to stab himself in the eye with a pen, but something about Desmond is infuriatingly attractive to him.

"I could," Desmond agrees, but he's crawling up Shaun's body and his lips press very softly against exposed collarbones, "but I'm not going to."

There is something undeniably hot about Desmond taking what he wants from him, and Shaun almost gives in and kisses those lips that are taunting him when Desmond suddenly whispers into his ear, "Voglio tenerti vicino a me."

And suddenly it is a flurry of limbs as he shoves the younger man off of him, though Desmond somehow evades the fist that strikes at his pretty face, and amidst it all Shaun hears him _laughing_.

"Oh fuck off!" Shaun snaps, as they both end up in a tangled pile on the floor, a mess of blanket and legs.

And Desmond is still laughing, clearly tickled to death by his oh-so-mature faking of what Shaun considers a Very Serious Situation. The look on the man's face, the honest sound coming from his mouth- Shaun feels like he's a girl in a Harlequin romance, feeling all aflutter about _nonsense_, and he solves his attraction to Desmond's laughter by shoving a pillow in the man's face.

He gives in without thinking about it.

Desmond is still grinning after he removes the pillow and the grin doesn't fade when noses brush, teeth clash, and Shaun is crushing their lips together. He is still grinning, one hand behind him to support the both of them, the other curled around one of the wrists that is holding the front of his shirt.

"You are the most insufferable, annoying, useless-" Shaun pulls back, jerking the man's face to look at him, and the cocky smirk that twists onto Desmond's lips is infuriatingly _hot._

"Mi dispiace, Shaun."


End file.
